Miracle
by beauifulliketherain
Summary: They were a wolf and a lion, Lannister and Stark, destined by birth to stand on opposing sides. There were times it did not matter - they were simply two people, equally lost. Sansa/Tyrion, S3.


The girl-child is impressively resilient.

Not many, he thinks, can survive what she has, nor learn to act a woman when she is barely out of childhood. Tragedy hardens her, (fire-forged steel, and sharp, sharp, edges, hidden yet). He wonders if they are not underestimating this wolf-child, behind her demurely lowered eyes and well-learnt words. And yet she is vulnerable as well, a pup still.

He can almost admire her for her courage.

* * *

He has no _idea_ what she feels.

The imp standing before her is a Lannister, and he has no _right_ to claim to know her feelings, when his father wars with Robb and his nephew ordered her undressed in front of half a court.

He is a lion like the rest of them, like Cersei with her lust for power and Joffrey with his mindless cruelty, and nothing coming from his mouth will convince her otherwise.

She would have remained silent, he is to be her husband, after all, but the unfairness of the comment loosens her tongue, even at the threat of his anger.

She is surprised when he agrees with her, and she allows him the fact that her look of regret is genuine.

He is not the one who imprisoned her, nor does he hold her captive. But she is too terrified and angry to care (perhaps she has simply forgotten how to care. The thought is unsettling.) and she does not regret it when he leaves.

* * *

The click of the door closing echoes around the room, and he can almost feel Sansa shiver.

They are alone on their wedding night, and his father words still haunt him as his (young, lovely frightened) bride looks at him with wide, wide blue eyes.

He needs another drink.

"My lord," the girl addresses him, and here, now, he does not deserve the title.

"Tyrion, Sansa."

His wife will call him by name- but she will not prevent him from being drunk (not tonight).

He fills his cup, wishing she would do the same. It need not be anything more than a brief inconvenience for her, half-forgotten. When he lifts the cup to his lips, though, he tastes a memory- her lips tasted like mead when they kissed, he and Tysha, dizzy from dancing, giddy from drink, that first night.

"My lord father commanded me to consummate this marriage."

She sees the wisdom in drinking, then ( _too late,_ he thinks, bitterly, _to get properly drunk_ ), but she has been taught to obey, so obey she does. She wears her pride like armor, this one, he thinks, even if she doesn't realise it yet.

She is fire and ice, this Lady of the north, smooth marble skin and flaming auburn hair that gleams in the light. She could be his- if he cares to see the revulsion in her eyes, whenever they meet hereafter.

 _You're a lord, she's a lady,_ Bronn had said, but it isn't true. He is an imp and she is a child, barely fourteen. There are duties he has to his father and his house, and an heir he must produce.

But she is so very _young_.

At this moment, nothing else matters.

* * *

She is surprised to find she enjoys her husband's company.

She agreed to the walk merely as an obligation, and what of it, when the castle already laughs behind her back? But the imp's has a sense of humor, and she finds herself less inhibited in his presence than she would like to be. He has a way of making her feel as if she is not alone in this place, and even if she knows the feeling isn't real, it's hard to convince herself of it.

She finds she likes to make him laugh.

* * *

One evening, he takes her to the keep's library. It his sanctuary, the place where no one ever bothers to look. Other people find books tiresome, a means to an end at best, but to him they are treasures and weapons (his only solace).

"It's not as good as the one in Winterfell, " he apologizes, but she simply offers her thanks.

She has never loved books, not the way her husband does (deeply and so profoundly, she can see their value if only she looks through his eyes), but she finds herself in the library often. Sometimes Tyrion picks out volumes she would like, songs and ballads and legends. She rarely reads, though- it is much better, to watch her husband's face in the flickering light of the fire (a dance of light and shadow) calm and peaceful (the expression does not belong, not in this realm of plots and tricksters and madness and blood).

For the first time since she left Winterfell, the silence is companionable, comfortable (and she can hardly hear the echoes and screams at all).

* * *

It is true, what she tells him on a lovely summer's day (the end of the world). She does not pray, not anymore (not when it didn't save her mother or Robb or her father, and now she is all alone). The gods have forgotten her, and it is no chore for her to do the same (and with it, to forget the girl she was, all idealistic, childish hopes and bright eyes).

But she stays in the godswood all the same- it's still a piece of home, (she and Arya and her father, her head in his lap, protected, safe) and she thinks she understands, now, why her father preferred this place, silent and still.

She does not pray, but one day, foolishly, she invites him to join her, and she can see understanding in his eyes.

And she asks (begs) all the deities she no longer believes in, her mother's gods and her father's (whoever is listening to her screams) that he does not betray her like every Lannister she has ever known. Because he is all rough edges and dark humor, this husband of hers. And she is beginning to trust him (just a little).


End file.
